


Actions Speak Louder than Words

by Mytrice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Deaf!Hamish, Family, Fluff, Gen, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytrice/pseuds/Mytrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Parentlock Deaf!Hamish -When Hamish was deafened while on a case it was a struggle for everyone to come to terms with what had happened but both Sherlock and John soon learn that sometimes it's better to move on than dwell on the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is 'Different Names for the same thing' - Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> ‘I’ve got no words to share with anyone/The boundaries of language, I quietly curse/ at all the different names for the same things'

“I assume you’re here to meet Hamish Watson-Holmes?”

John shuffled his feet nervously and clung onto Sherlock’s arm as the woman at the reception typed at her computer. The reception was a colour Sherlock referred to as institutional magnolia and there was nowhere to sit down. The silence in the plain reception was oppressive to say the least and it just made the ball of nerves in the pit of John’s stomach tighten. He couldn’t help but let his mind run wild, as it had done almost constantly over the last two months with things he could have done to make it him instead of Hamish. Why had they let him come with them anyway? It was a stupid idea. It was Sherlock’s idea... John’s train of thought was mercifully interrupted by the woman at the reception desk.

“He’s coming down now and I’ve been told he has all of his bags.” The women barely made eye contact when she spoke which puzzled John. How can she work in a hospital specifically for the Deaf when she couldn’t even meet someone’s eyes when they spoke? As far as John remembered, that was the first thing he’d learnt at the classes he’d attended with Sherlock. Rule One: Always make eye contact with someone when they’re signing otherwise it is considered that you are completely disinterested in what they have to say or just incredibly rude.

Seeing the doors of the lift in front of them begin to open, Sherlock felt John’s grip on his arm tighten. “It’s going to be fine, John. He wants things to revert back to how they were before, which seems a bit farfetched to me but it’s the least we can do for him to try.”

John’s head was immediately filled with ways in which Hamish’s life would never be normal again. He let out a short bitter laugh, which he instantly regretted. This wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. None of this was Sherlock’s fault. It was just coincidence. He knew Sherlock didn’t deserve his scorn and sarcasm and so he apologised quietly taking the other man’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly.  

As soon as Hamish appeared from the lift flanked by two hospital orderlies carrying his bags John’s bitterness disappeared. His son was coming home after two months in hospital, which were spent learning as much as he could about Deaf culture and studying BSL, which he had now mastered, thanks to his ability to absorb information and retain it completely, a trait undoubtedly inherited from his father.

John was startled as Sherlock began to stride forward across the sparse reception area to meet up with his son again.  John went with him unsure of whether he could actually let go of Sherlock’s arm. Why was he afraid with meeting up with his son? Two months ago everything had been ordinary or as ordinary as you could get living with Sherlock Holmes but now John felt as if he barely knew Hamish. He hadn’t even managed to master basic BSL and he couldn’t keep up with the pace at which Sherlock signed let alone Hamish. John tried to forget about his insecurities as Hamish walked up to them.

They both signed hello, Sherlock more confidently than John, before they each in turn pulled him into a tight embrace. ‘How are you?’ John signed, pointing his thumbs into his chest before bringing them forward in front of him in one motion. He was aware that he would soon be excluded from the conversation. John decided he’d probably take both of Hamish’s bags so he could chat with Sherlock on the way home to Baker Street.

‘Happy to finally be going home.’ Hamish signed, smiling now, as he stood beside his parents. As much as he’d enjoyed making friends at the hospital he was desperate to return back home where he hoped everything would be as it was before.

After Hamish had said goodbye to the hospital staff he’d made friends with during his time at there, they walked to the nearest tube station. Sherlock and Hamish spoke to each other the whole way there, leaving John feeling useless and excluded. He tried to focus of what was being said between them but their hands flew so quickly that he barely recognised a sign before they’d completely changed subject, something which John still struggled with. It was strange thinking that it might be years until he could speak to Hamish properly again. John knew he’d have to work hard on BSL but he could never remember a sign for more than a few days unless he practiced it constantly. Sherlock quickly grew impatient of the speed at which John learned at and became reluctant to help because he found it ‘infuriatingly slow’.

* * *

 

The tube was surprisingly empty on the way home to Baker Street.  Hamish sat in-between his parents with his bags at his feet. Sherlock attempted to translate their conversation for John but he couldn’t sign and translate at the same time so he only told John the important parts. Sherlock found it intriguing that as the train screeched through the underground tunnels that both John, himself and the seventeen other passengers in the carriage would wince but Hamish would continue to sit still. He knew exactly why but it was still strange to think that his son could not hear a single sound after his inner ear was completely destroyed on that day that he still hadn’t properly spoken about with John. Sherlock banished the thought from his mind: He did not need to dwell on the past, especially that part of it.

‘Mrs. Hudson’s looking forward to seeing you again.’ Sherlock signed. He was forced to finger spell her name for now because they needed to think of a sign that would suit her. A sign name is a certain sign that already means something that is also used for someone’s name. It is usually based on a characteristic or personality trait associated with a person. At the hospital Hamish had been known as ‘Curly’ to his friends, much to his annoyance, because of his hair but he didn’t want that name to be carried home with him. So they would be forced to think of another name for him. Mycroft’s sign name was the sign for umbrella- Putting one fist on top of the other before raising the top fist upwards. Lestrade’s name was the sign for a fox- Opening the palm in front of the face and quickly pulling it away while closing your fingers. 

Hamish smiled, he’d missed Mrs. Hudson and she’d only been to visit him three times while he was in hospital because her hip had been ‘giving her trouble’. Adjusting the bags at his feet, Hamish watched as everybody’s attention suddenly turned towards the ceiling. Hamish sighed to himself; there must have been an announcement. It was quite amusing to see how people’s attention quickly returned back to their newspapers after the announcement ended but Hamish couldn’t help but think about how he would never hear the prim voice of the announcer again. He’d been told at the hospital that thinking like that wouldn’t help him and he knew the psychologist was right but it was difficult not to think about everything he’d miss now.  ‘Announcement?’ He asked, eyebrow raised in question.

John nodded knowing he’d be able to answer Hamish’s question when Sherlock beat him to it. ‘Yes, the next station is Baker Street.’ John sank back into his chair, disappointed. How was he supposed to get better at BSL if Sherlock didn’t even give him a chance to speak? He bit his lip and promised himself that he would bring it up with Sherlock later.

With that the familiar sight of Baker Street Station came into view and they got to their feet. John took Hamish’s bags again and followed Sherlock off of the train.

* * *

 

 The walk back to 221b didn’t take very long and Hamish soon found himself back sitting comfortably in the living room. He knew it seemed childish but he’d silently greeted the flat as he’d walked in and felt inclined to touch every surface as if making himself known once again. He’d dreamed of doing this for the past few months.  Everything was wonderfully familiar and Hamish hated to admit it but he had even missed the mess of case files that adorned most of the spare space in the flat. Now he noticed that mixed in among the files were loose sheets of paper with sign diagrams on them which must have belonged to his dad. Hamish smiled faintly and leaned back into the sofa, tucking his legs up underneath him. He was reading a book that he’d been given to him by a friend at the hospital as a leaving present and was enjoying not having to have his ears checked for infection twice a day or having bandages wrapped around his head, forcing his hair to stick out at various angles.

John stood in the kitchen with Sherlock making tea for them all while the other man checked the experiments that he’d been working on for the past couple of weeks. “He seems quite happy doesn’t he?” John said as he poured boiling water from the kettle into the tea pot.

“Yes.” Sherlock scraped at one of the cultures he was growing before making it into a slide so he could examine it under his microscope. “Considering the circumstances, he’s doing extremely well.”

“Hmm.” John said. He was unsure of whether to bring up what Sherlock had done on the train earlier or to let it slide this once. Deciding that it would only get worse John decided to bring it up now so it wouldn’t happen again. “Sherlock?” He said carefully as he poured the tea into the three mugs he’d laid out.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope curiously, judging by John’s tone and the tentative way he was pouring the tea, something was bothering him. “Yes, John. What is it? Something is annoying you and you are unsure of whether to bring it up so as not to hurt my feelings. I can assure you that I am extremely unlikely to be offended by what you have to say.”

John’s grip on the tea pot tightened. At times like this he hated Sherlock’s deductions but at least that got rid of his fear of hurting Sherlock’s feelings. “Correct.” He stated setting Sherlock’s tea down in front of him, perhaps too forcefully and walking back around the kitchen table to sit down across from him. “When we were on the tube, you didn’t even give me a chance to answer Hamish’s question, when _for once_ I actually would have been more than capable. How do you expect me to get better if you don’t even give me a chance to try?”  John knew his tone was too cutting now and that he shouldn’t have let himself get this angry.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope as John spoke deciding that it would probably be best to give the man his complete attention considering the way he was spitting out his words. “I’m sorry, John. I hadn’t even noticed I’d done it. I shall try and give you time to answer in the future.”

John was startled by the sincerity of Sherlock’s reply. He’d expected at least to have some sort of dispute but Sherlock seemed to realise what he’d done. John smiled, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware that he’d been holding. “Thank you, Sherlock. I will get BSL, you know. I will be able to speak to Hamish the same as you do. It just might take me a little bit longer.” John stood up from the table and went to the counter to take Hamish his tea. He walked past Sherlock on his way to the living room and stooped down to kiss the other man’s cheek wordlessly.

“John? “ Sherlock called looking up from his microscope again. His cheeks were slightly flushed, a side effect of whenever John surprised him with a kiss. “You will do it. I’ll try to help you more.”

“Thank you.” John smiled over at him before walking through the archway into the living room. He approached Hamish unsure of how to get his attention. He thought back to the classes he’d attended with Sherlock. Rule Two: Never touch or tap a Deaf person when you’re not in their line of vision to get their attention, it would be the same as someone sneaking up on you and shouting to scare you.  John placed Hamish’s tea on the table in front of him and before going over and quickly flashing the lights on and off again to get Hamish’s attention. “Tea.” He signed and pointed at the table.

“Thanks, Dad.” Hamish said in reply before turning back to his book, it was actually quite good.

John sat down in his armchair and watched his son read while he sipped his tea. He hated to think how close they’d been to losing him completely and he’d never been able to put into words how grateful he was that Hamish had survived. Before he could allow himself to be absorbed further into his thoughts there was a knock at the door.  Knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t get up from his experiment John went to answer it. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Hello.”

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway with a carrot cake held out in front of her. “I was making a cake for the café and I thought that I should make one for Hamish. It is his favourite after all.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson.” John said as he took the cake from her and set it down on the table in front of Hamish who had got up from the sofa to hug and thank her.

“John? Can you translate for me I want to tell Hamish how much I’ve missed him before I have to go back down to the café?” Mrs. Hudson looked over hopefully at him.

John shifted uncomfortably and sighed. “No, not really but Sherlock could. Let me go and get him. Do you want tea, Mrs. Hudson?”

“No, it’s alright I should be downstairs really.” Mrs. Hudson followed Hamish and sat down beside him on the sofa, offering him a nervous smile.

* * *

 

After Sherlock had explained to Hamish just how much she’d missed him, Mrs. Hudson said her goodbyes and headed down the stairs.

Sherlock stood up from his chair to return to his experiment and smile spread across his face. “I think I’ve thought of Mrs. Hudson’s sign name.” He spoke and signed at the same time for both John and Hamish.

‘What is it?’ Hamish asked, eyebrow raised in question.

‘Housekeeper.’ Sherlock signed which was met by laughter from John and silent chuckle from Hamish.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sign language used in this fic is purely BSL (British Sign Language) and all sign descriptions are correct. I am co-writing this with Epicukulele who will write the even numbered chapters. This fic won’t be updated on a regular schedule due to school work but we hope to update whenever we can. –Mytrice


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the this chapter is 'Come Back When You Can' - Barcelona

It was 11:00pm and Hamish was already in bed though John doubted he was actually sleeping.  With a yawn, John fixed himself a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa.  It seemed like a normal night at   Baker Street, Sherlock was stooped over his microscope and Hamish was in his bedroom upstairs. John tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach because everything was far from normal. He pushed his mug away; he wasn’t in the mood for tea.

“What’s wrong, John? You’ve been quiet ever since we got back from the hospital.” Sherlock asked, his voice steady. He didn’t even bother to look up from his microscope, avidly studying the tissue culture underneath it.

“You know exactly what’s wrong, Sherlock. I’m not going to point out the elephant in the room. “ John got up and pulled his coat over his shoulders with a sigh. “I’m going out.”

“Just like that case we did. I hated working with MI5, they couldn’t even see the obvious.” Sherlock smiled to himself at the memory.

“Stop it, Sherlock. For the cleverest person I know, you can be so stupid” He paced with frustration. Sherlock looked up from his microscope, his face not betraying any emotion, just staring intensely at John.

 “What possessed _you_ , to take our fourteen year old son to a hostage situation? I literally can’t fathom-“ John stopped himself, and steadied his breathing. He just managed to stop the tears that were threatening to fall down his cheeks.  He couldn’t help his outburst. For the last two months he’d had constant questions running through his mind.  Too many ‘What ifs?’ and ‘If onlys’. He tried not to blame Sherlock but it was hard, almost the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

“Yes, I know I was busy at work, but what made you think take Hamish as a substitute instead of me? I should have been the one that got hurt not him.” Sherlock listened in silence, not even bothering to defend himself. “Now, I can’t even talk to my own son.” John’s voice became strained. “I can’t even bloody talk to my own son. He won’t speak to me and I can’t even sign. It may be months before I can even learn properly. “Sherlock was no longer staring at John, he looking through his microscope apparently bored by John’s outburst.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” Sherlock continued to ignore John. “Fine, ignore me. I get it.  You can talk to Hamish. Tell him that what happened to him doesn’t matter to you because you really don’t seem fussed.”  

Sherlock stood up and swiped at a stray tear that had escaped from one of his eyes. John didn’t know what to say now, the anger that had just taken him over was gone now. Throughout his time of knowing Sherlock he had never seen him cry before. He hadn’t meant what he had said; he’d just wanted to see if Sherlock felt anything at all.

Sherlock had been really distant for the last few months, taking cases in foreign counties, leaving home in the afternoon and coming back in the early hours of the morning and never explaining where he went.  John had tried to understand, it hard on both of them.  Sherlock did need space but it didn’t mean he could ignore what happen to Hamish. They hadn’t discussed Deaf schools or if Hamish wanted speech therapy.  In fact, Sherlock had never asked if John needed help singing or offer to practise with him.

“Just say it.” John voice came out quiet, barely filling the room.

“I don’t know what you me-“Sherlock began but John interrupted him.

“Say that you’re sorry. That’s what hurts me the most. I know you are sorry but please just say it, Sherlock. I just need to hear you say it.”

“You know I am.” Sherlock replied. He looked dazed as he concentrated on keeping his voice steady.

“Then say it.”

 

 

“I can’t. I don’t -“John ran down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.  Sherlock could feel his disappointment even if he hadn’t actually heard John say he was. Saying sorry, Sherlock decided, would mean nothing. It wouldn’t bring Hamish’s hearing back, it wouldn’t turn back time or teach John BSL. It was ineffective and irrational but he knew it was what John wanted. _Sometimes you can’t have what you want._

* * *

_  
_

It was exactly 3A.M; Sherlock could tell by the size of shadow under the curtains of their bedroom. He could hear the steady creak of the stairs, heaving as John placed one slow step after another, pausing every couple of steps, while he used his cane to support himself. The limp is back, Sherlock thought to himself with a sigh.

There was the rustle of sheets coming from the linen cupboard. John must have been getting blankets to sleep on the sofa. Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed when the only sound in the flat was of tossing and turning before everything became silent. He carefully crept out of bed and walked into the living room, making sure to miss the floorboards that he knew squeaked.

 John was asleep, but the duvet had fallen onto the floor. Sherlock bent down and tucked John in methodically; making sure all of him was covered.  He fixed the pillow underneath John’s neck so he wouldn’t have a stiff back in the morning.  Sherlock stared down at his husband for a while before slowly kissing his forehead and making his way back to his own bed.

* * *

 

John felt a sharp ache in his back.  He was awake but in the half dazed not really alert state. He had concluded that the particularly uncomfortable surface he was lying on was not the sofa. He had probably rolled off of it and onto the floor. Internally groaning, he opened an eye. Light drifted through the curtains of 221B, dust floating, catching the light.  That was one of the things that John had neglected whilr Hamish had been in hospital, cleaning.  Sherlock loved dust- _it was eloquent_ but John didn’t agree with him there. Dust had settled on the bookshelves and even on top of Sherlock’s skull.  
  
Thinking about Sherlock had brought back the argument, like a flood. It wasn't really an argument, more like a one sided rant. Each sentence was like a jab in the heart and upon remembering, John had become regretful. He hadn't meant anything he’d said but that didn't change the fact he’d said all of those things. He’d been angry, yes but even more that he had been overcome by a blinding rage which was feeling he hadn’t had since leaving the battle field.

"Never knew you enjoyed sleeping on the floor." John's train of thought was broken by Sherlock's voice, deep and uneven from sleep.  
  
"I was jus-"  
  
"I know."  
  
"About last night, I just want to say tha-"   
  
"I know"  
  
"Sherlock, what I said yesterday..." John trailed off, unable to express himself coherently. Sherlock could usually tell what was on John's mind and probably could now, but he needed to apologise. Not even for Sherlock, for himself so at least he could have peace of mind.  
  
"None of it was true and despite the circumstances what I said will never be okay. I had to make sure you knew this so you don't condone my behaviour."   
  
Sherlock looked up at John both their gazes locked. They stared at each other, carefully noting the differences in each other demeanour and faces. They both shared a sullen tired expression, John had developed a few new frown lines and he noticed that Sherlock was wearing 4 nicotine patches. It was a four patch problem then.  
  
"I'm sorry, John."  
  
John blinked in shock. The great consulting detective had just apologised.   
  
"I am. It's just- It won't bring back Hamish's hearing." Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder, and proceeded to the front door. "I'm just going to buy some eggs, there's nothing for breakfast and I'm sure you're hungry."   
  
"Wait." John ran to Sherlock, grabbed his hand and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “I don't blame you.  I never have blamed you. It's not your fault." Sherlock chose not to answer and just shook his head wordlessly. "Sherlock?" John asked, concern creeping into his voice.

Sherlock opened the door and looked up. “Of course it is.”  With that, he left the flat, leaving a dazed John behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that this chapter is a bit angsty and John is being a bit annoying but we can’t be our best selves all the time. I find that when writing it’s easier to make the characters all put together, so I purposely made John a bit irrational but Mytrice will make the next chapter all happy and fluffy, so it’s okay :). -epicukulele


	3. Chapter 3

 Hamish was awoken the next morning by the smell of frying bacon. It was strange to wake up in his room at home after being away for so many months. Everything that once would have been so normal now seemed foreign.  He was so used to his clinical yet homely room in the hospital so much that being surrounded by his books and seeing the pile of laundry that Mrs. Hudson had done for him on the top of his desk felt almost as if he was on holiday. Checking his clock to see that is was 10am, Hamish climbed out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and went downstairs to see if there was any breakfast left for him.

John looked up from the stove when he saw Hamish walk into the kitchen and smiled. ‘Hello Hamish.’ He signed before putting some bacon and scrambled eggs on a plate and setting them down on the table.  John longed to ask Hamish if he slept well but he didn’t have the first idea how and it wasn’t as if Sherlock was around to ask.

‘Fine. Thank you. Where’s Father?” Hamish signed before taking the plate and picking up a knife and fork.

John froze.  How could he explain why Sherlock had left? He wasn’t sure if he could tell Hamish how anyway. It was only now that John realised how heavily dependent he was on Sherlock when it came to speaking with Hamish. With a sigh, he put down his tea cup and went to find one of the many note books that Sherlock secreted all over the flat. After finding one shoved in the cupboard in between two boxes of cereal John took out a pen and wrote down his answer to Hamish’s question.

 _We had an argument. Nothing bad. Just the usual._ John pushed the note book across the Hamish who read it before putting his knife and fork down to write.

 _Was it about body parts in the fridge or something, then?_ Hamish smiled as he wrote, thinking of all the times his parents had fights. The live salmon in the bath and the time his father had deemed it acceptable to blend the stomach contents of a camel to simulate digestion, his dad had questioned the science behind that one, were some of the most memorable ones.

Looking down at Hamish’s note, John wasn’t sure how to reply. He could lie. It would only be a white lie after all and Sherlock was likely to be his usual self when he got back. Hamish would be none the wiser. 

 _Yeah, you don’t want to know where he had some toes stowed away._ John felt a slight twinge in his chest at his dishonesty but he’d decided that it was better than telling Hamish the truth- that things hadn’t been the same between him and Sherlock since the accident.

Hamish laughed silently and was just about to pick up the pen to reply when he saw John’s head snap upwards in the direction of the door to their flat. Father must be home. His suspicions were confirmed when his dad got up from the table and signed disjointedly. ‘Father-is-back.’ 

Hamish nodded and watched him go through to the next room. After finishing his breakfast, he left his plate by the sink, knowing that he’d probably be drafted in to do the washing up later anyway. He went straight upstairs to wash and dress. His parents usually made pointless conversation until one of them admitted that they’d over reacted or the other makes a false but good intended promise not to put anymore specimens in the fridge and move on. Things normally returned to something that vaguely resembled normal after that.

* * *

 

John walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin and sighed. Now was really not the time for a visit to Sherlock’s mind palace.  John cleared his throat to try and get Sherlock’s attention.

“Sherlock, we need to talk about what happened this morning.” John tried, sitting down in his chair.

Sherlock grunted in response and turned to face the wall, his back to John.

“Come on, Sherlock. We can’t stay like this not with Hamish. It’s not fair on him.”

“Ha!”

John sat back startled by the venom in Sherlock’s tone. “What?”

“It wouldn’t be fair on Hamish? You do understand what isn’t fair on Hamish though don’t you, John?” Sherlock turned over kicking the edge of coffee table as he did so, sending folders and loose sheets of paper to floor. “That fact that he’s Deaf. That he can’t hear anything. Silence. And do you know why?” Sherlock ploughed on, ignoring John’s attempt at calming him down. “Because I took him on that case. _I_  did. Not you, you would never have done something so irresponsible. Don’t tell me you don’t blame me because you have every right to.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong, Sherlock.” John stammered. “For once, you’ve got it wrong. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t you that detonated the bomb. It was just a case of the wrong place at the wrong time.” John perched on the edge of the sofa and took Sherlock’s hand, gently running his thumb over the top of it. “We have a ton of other things to worry about right now with Hamish and I think we could both do without you feeling guilty. You have no reason to, as I said, it was an accident.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh in defeat. He would have carried on arguing if it was anyone other than John.  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust or believe him; he just couldn’t comprehend how John could forgive him not after what could have happened. They both had agreed not to talk about it but perhaps that wasn’t the best decision. “If you are sure.” Was all Sherlock could think to say. It wasn’t as if he’d chosen to feel guilty, it was an extremely debilitating emotion like grief or love.Which made sense as they were all so intricately connected to each other.

John rolled his eyes and brought Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips to kiss them gently. “Yes, of course I’m sure. Where did you go this morning anyway? You were gone for about three hours.”

Sherlock shook his head and moved his wrist so he could lace his fingers together with John’s. “Nowhere in particular, I just walked and thought about the last few months. Where I was going was unimportant.”

John nodded and shifted on the arm of the sofa so that he was more comfortable. “Now, promise me that you won’t feel guilty anymore.”

 Sherlock knew that he’d never be able to feel as though he wasn’t marginally responsible for Hamish’s accident but he had to admit that knowing John didn’t blame him had made things easier. Looking up at John, Sherlock fought to keep his voice steady. “I promise.” He hadn’t lied as such; the alternative would have meant another lecture from John and Sherlock had decided he’d had more than enough of them over the past twenty four hours.

“Thank you.” John bent down from where he was balanced precariously from the side of the sofa and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Hearing the stairs creak, John lowered his voice. “I told Hamish that we’d had a fight over you keeping toes in the breadbin.”

Sherlock smiled appreciatively but couldn’t help but feel reassured about how John had lied to protect Hamish. That’s only what he’d done earlier when he’d lied about not feeling guilty, what he always did in fact, protect John. “Alright, but John?”

John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s forehead before frowning. “What?”

“I would still strongly advise you not to look in the breadbin.”

Only then did Sherlock realise that they were both whispering. What was the point? Hamish wouldn’t hear them anyway. Only now did Sherlock realise how much of a disadvantage Hamish was at.  He tried to not put himself in Hamish’s position; imagine how difficult being the world’s only Deaf consulting detective would be. Without his hearing he’d be nothing and yet Hamish was still determined to carry on as if nothing had changed.  Sherlock could barely imagine just how brave Hamish was being, he must have inherited that from John.

Hamish walked into the living room and rolled his eyes at his parents who were huddled together before signing to them both.

John watched as Sherlock smirked and untangled their fingers so he could reply. “What did Hamish say? I didn’t catch it.”

 It would appear that despite his ordeal Hamish hadn’t changed that much at all. Shaking his head, Sherlock fired back his response. “Hamish is just being rude to his poor parents and is about to apologise.”

Hamish smirked, a perfect imitation of the expression that Sherlock had had on his face seconds ago, before closing his hand and moving it in a circular motion over his chest. ‘Sorry.’ It was clear that his apology wasn’t even remotely genuine.

‘Apology accepted.’ Sherlock decided to ignore Hamish’s lack of respect and got up from John’s side. Sherlock settled in his armchair and hesitated as he went to pick up the newspaper that lay beside it when he saw Hamish standing idly in the middle of the room and brought his hands up to sign. ‘What do you intend to do today?’

Hamish shrugged and didn’t bother to move. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t have anything planned. I might finish my book.’

Sherlock’s eyes fell on the cello case tucked away in the corner of the room. Hamish usually left the case somewhere John would trip over it which had been the cause of numerous arguments but the cello hadn’t moved for three months. It sat gathering dust in the place where Mrs. Hudson had left it when tidying that flat while Hamish had been in hospital.

‘How about you play your cello again? I’ve missed hearing you play.’ Sherlock signed as he spoke for John’s benefit.

John got up from the arm of the sofa and went to sit in his armchair. “Sherlock?” John hissed. “How do you expect him to play?” He said with obvious dismay. He was aware he was being rude, speaking without even trying to include Hamish but what was Sherlock doing? They had tactfully avoided talking about Hamish’s cello. It had been his most prized possession before the accident but John didn’t see what use it would be to him now.

Sherlock huffed as though John had just said that the copper sulphate crystals that were currently occupying his RAMC mug weren’t blue. “Of course he’ll be able to play, John. I know you are a biologist but surely you are aware of vibrations or did the fundamentals of physics completely pass you by?” Finding it difficult to sign and speak at the same time, Sherlock carried on signing after he’d finished speaking which gave John time to work out what Sherlock was talking about.

“That’s brilliant.” John got up from his chair and went to retrieve the case from the corner of the room. “You’re right. There’s no reason why Hamish couldn’t feel the change in vibrations.”

Throughout the entire conversation Hamish had stood motionless in the centre of the living room. He had tried not to think about music and always changed the subject whenever anyone mentioned it since the accident. Just as he thought he would be able to cope with never being able to play again his mind would wonder to his fair but ruthless cello teacher and the proud face of his father whenever he won a competition. Hamish barely bothered to try and understand what his parents were talking about in fear that he would lose his composure. Judging by his dad’s expression they were arguing  _again_. It wasn’t as if Hamish hadn’t noticed that his parents could barely go three hours without having some kind of dispute since the accident. He was a Holmes after all. 

After watching his dad clumsily attempt to undo the clasps on his case, Hamish strode across the room and took over, carefully removing the cello and taking out his preferred bow. The weight of it felt odd in his hand which seemed to confirm to Hamish that he shouldn’t be doing this. It was just one of the many other things he would have to accept that he couldn’t do anymore. With a shaking hand he reached for his rosin tin and rubbed it over the strings of the bow.

Taking Hamish’s hint, John went to the kitchen to get a chair for him to sit in. He gave Hamish a careful smile as he set it down, nervous of whether Sherlock’s idea would work.

With the chair in place, Hamish sat down and rested the cello in between his knees. He plucked a string experimentally with his other hand firmly grasped around the fingerboard. He smiled in delight as the vibrations travelled up his arm. Seeing his father grimacing from the other side of the room, Hamish raised an eyebrow in question.

‘Terribly out of tune. Hasn’t been touched it in months.’ Sherlock signed before walking over to Hamish and taking the instrument from him. A bittersweet memory of when Hamish was first learning and hadn’t had the first idea of how to tune the instrument came to the front of Sherlock’s mind, Hamish had begged his father to teach him how and now it was highly unlikely that he’d be able to do it perfectly again.  

Hamish huffed at the loss of his cello and decided that his relief that the cello not being lost to him had been foolish.  He’d only played a note, which barely meant anything. He couldn’t even tune it.

Pleased with his work, Sherlock handed the cello back to Hamish. ‘You’ll learn how to tell if it’s in tune by the vibrations quickly enough. We’ll practice.’ He signed, before retreating back to his armchair.

Hamish wasn’t convinced it seemed like an impossible task but he nodded anyway. He plucked the string again and was surprised to find that he could notice a change in the vibration it gave off. Encouraged, Hamish plucked across the four open strings and tried to memorise the vibrations of C, G, D, A. He looked up to find that both of his parents were smiling at each other but wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or happiness. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

After playing a simple scale in C major pizzicato, Hamish picked up his bow and played a piece he knew was a favourite of both his parents. Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise- a song without words. He decided that there wasn’t a piece more appropriate. After all, it wasn’t as though he could really speak his mind anymore; he’d always have to change to nearest synonym that he knew the sign for. The BSL vocabulary would never be as vast as the English language.

It was amazing, Hamish realised, how he’d been bottling up his frustrations and hadn’t noticed. It was liberating to let them go and drift away with the melody that played in his head that matched the movements of his fingers.

When the piece finally ended Hamish looked up to find that both of his parents looked as though they were both struggling to keep their expressions in check. After some analysis, he decided to take that as a compliment. Resting the instrument down beside him, Hamish looked over to his father. ‘How was it? I can’t tell when the pitch needs adjusting.’

John understood Hamish’s first sentence. ‘Brilliant.’ He signed, balling his fist and holding it to his mouth before pulling it away quickly and opening his hand before going into the kitchen to make tea for everyone. He needed to moment to himself after that.

Sherlock stood up, crossed the room and drew his son into a tight embrace. When he finally let go after an amount of time that was beginning to make Hamish feel uncomfortable, Sherlock signed. ‘Your Dad is quite right. It was brilliant. I’ll help you with the pitching. You could start having lessons again. There’s no reason why you couldn’t.’

‘I’d like that. Can you call Mr. Dorokhov later?’ For the first time in months Hamish felt as if he was finally moving on and he couldn’t believe quite how relieved that made him feel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention before that anything said in Sign Language will have 'single quote marks' around it and anything spoken will have "double". I hope that stops any confusion. I apologise for anything I get wrong about cellos, I've only ever seen other people play and I've never tried myself. If there are any corrections I need to make put them in the comments. Thank you for being patient.-Mytrice


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